RoyAi 100 Yet Again
by Mandy138
Summary: Various forms of responses to the 100 themes indicative of RoyAi. Response 77 [Implicit Rules] up. More forthcoming. Please expect anime and manga spoilers and Artistic licenses.
1. 7 Crime and Punishment

#7: Crime and Punishment

* * *

Walking down the damp, chilly, and dimly lit hallway, Hawkeye had to renew her effort to keep the dismal circumstances and hopelessness at bay. The echoing footsteps from her escorts' uniform dress shoes added to hers only served to increase the desolation. They were all immaculately dressed, uniforms and accessories per regulations, but even so, she would never feel _apart_ of them. They weren't _family_ after all; only Mustang's established group would ever hold that privilege.

Her side felt empty, lighter, and naked at the missing weight of her gun. That'd been the first thing they'd done before even allowing her past the security gate, taking her precious love, her heart and life…or was it simply the means to that? But it didn't matter now. If worst came to worst and she'd given in to the temptation of drawing it, there'd be no place to hide in this corridor of open-barred cells from her escorts' assault rifles. But it really _didn't_ matter, it was long since removed and she could already see his cell.

There he sat nonchalantly on his cot, covers pushed off to one side and legs bent, one under him and one knee propping up an arm, his coat discarded beside him and the sleeves on his under shirt messily rolled. His head was bent forward slightly, hair obscuring his face, and she was sure his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration. She knew he heard them, who couldn't with how their footfalls reverberated, but he was scribbling away ever incessantly in his book, as he always did when he had free time, and he wouldn't look up until he finished that thought.

And knowing him as she did, she simply waited for that moment to arrive as she stood before his cell after having involuntarily quickened her pace and pulled away from her _friends_, watching the muscles in his partly revealed forearm as they strained in his frenzied scrawling. The two guards on either side of his cell had glanced at each other momentarily at the officer that had darted between them before nodding and moving to the newly arrived soldiers via escort duty, talking quietly while maintaining watchful gazes on their respective charges.

Her fingers wrapped themselves around two bars, but she refrained from calling him just yet. She knew how important his thoughtful silence was to him and how it was even more so when he was _really_ working. But the tension and anxiety boiling in her chest couldn't be contained any longer, and the froth that spilled from her lips in the form of his rank burned sharply before its sudden heat dissipated into the cool air.

"Hawkeye."

The surprised look in his eyes and the relieved, gentle smile that blossomed at her worried voice only served to strengthen the constrictions seizing her chest rather than offering the relief she'd been seeking. He was physically fine, and appeared to be mentally, as well. But the situational aspect was decidedly…non idyllic. Her hands gripped ever tighter on the bars in her unease as she watched him lazily fold his pen into the book's spine, stand, and walk to her. She pried the loosening digits and her eyes away as he stuck his hands through to let his arms rest on the cross bar and wiped them on her pants embarrassedly.

Looking up unsteadily from her nervous actions, knowing he could see them for what they truly were, she passed his undone collar with little thought on to his face. This state of 'undress' was normal for him when not working and she'd been privy to it plenty a time, but it was the unguarded look on a face she was so used to seeing as moderately stern that threw her into an angry spin, however.

"Colonel!" she whispered, anger and frustration combining with other emotions she couldn't quite separate to bring her heated tone into manifestation. "At least _look_ like you're taking this seriously," she half-pleaded in that same tone, eyes scoping his face.

"Oh, please," he responded, closing his eyes in making a scolding face, his voice free from…anything, really; his serious voice. And looking upon her again, finished, "I'm no longer your commanding officer."

Her eyes narrowed at the hasty conclusion and his attitude, it only adding more fuel, funny how his trademark fit him _too_ well, to the fire burning in the upper branches, continually spurred by one Roy Mustang. "I think you're being a little too impulsive, sir. It's only a court-martial."

A sigh heavy with exhaustion was proffered prior to his damning words, a shake of his head given as some sort of perverted consolation. "If it was only a hearing, don't you think I'd be under house arrest and not locked in a dingy cell?" He looked at her through the sides of his eyes, face breaking at her classic don't-be-stupid-sir expression. How many more times would he get to see it?

"Abuse of rank, insubordination, insurrection, conspiracy with intent to murder…murder," he listed solemnly, watching his favored black book bounce as it hung from his hand through the bars. "Do you think they would imprison a State Alchemist and vaunted _war_ hero for only a charge?" He glanced to her face briefly, his tone serious as he delivered the sarcastic words. "Yeah, I was sentenced long before they actually found me. They even took my watch," he laughed bitterly.

"No, my dear Hawkeye," she didn't much like his tone at _all_, "I think it's safe to expect transfer orders within the week."

Her eyebrows pulled together, the tightness they caused in her face strengthening her frown. His uncanny scrutiny, words, and dropped honorifics increasingly dashing any hopes she had left remaining with the more time she spent dwelling on them.

"Still, sir," she offered, her quiet timbre gentle, "wait until tomorrow."

His eyes were locked onto hers, held fast by her earnestness, and he could only give a tilted nod.

She nodded back, breaking eye contact to look down in chastisement at having over-stepped her bounds. She pulled away and straightening her posture, nodded to the guards that she was ready to go.

Roy straightened jerkily in surprise as she began to move away, voice illustrating it as clearly as his body language, "Uh, Hawkeye! Here!" He pulled a single piece of paper, folded into thirds, out from his little book, and held it out to her. "Take this…please."

"One last order?"

He smiled, grateful for her diligence and loyalty, and yet rueful for the same reasons. "A…_request_, from a friend, an acquaintance. Let us at least be that much."

"Sir?"

"If worse comes to worst."

She tucked the letter away and halted the hand in its salute at his look before nodding and walking away, the fading echoes of her steps dragging out her goodbye and painfully reinforcing his isolation. He sighed to himself as he stood bent, head against the bars as his hands dangled from between them, the book in his right hand capturing his blank sight. He stood after all trace of her ever having been there was gone and the guards once again returned to his cell's sides, combing a hand through his hair before sinking back onto his cot to record what he could in the time still left.

* * *

I've always wanted to write something regarding a court-martial for certain actions Roy's committed during the show/manga and this is the result. I've decided to cut it off there and not continue on with the results to keep it ambiguous like this so that no special knowledge is _required_ to complete this piece. And though some might consider this to be spoiler-ish, only those who've actually _seen_ all the episodes will get what could be taken as spoilers as spoilers, but they'll also get the situation this is taken from. What situation, you ask? Well, if I told you _that_, I wouldn't be living up to my goals, now would I? There is nothing specific that could've been spoiled in this piece, so don't worry FMA newbs. All is well, in here.

Coincidentally, I finally obtained access to the RoyAi 100 challenge translations and this fits marvelously well to theme #7: Crime and Punishment. I may end up converting this story to house the rest of the responses to that… Scratch that, I think I will. So, as a result, there'll be ranged entries from full on prose to drabbles; if I can ever stop at a drabble. My attempts thus far have failed and I've learned that I'm a horrible study in drabble-dabbling.


	2. 13 Betrayal

#13: Betrayal

* * *

There was much work to be done, not unusual for this position _or_ this office, but the paper work seemed to be especially high today. A shadow across the document currently on the receiving end of his scrawl lifted his eyes up to meet with his First Lieutenant. His pen went askew in his limp hand and his lips fell into a remorsefully wry twist at the additional load she came bearing in her arms. Yes, the paper work was indeed high today, and if he hadn't been sure if it was just his imagination, the apologetic look on his staffer's face told him she'd noticed it, too. He could only shake his head slightly in mild disgust and throw a scowl, sloppily gesturing with his pen to say 'add it to the pile' before returning to what lay before him.

He was aware of her at the desk beside him, busily working away at watching him, making sure he wouldn't be tempted to slack off. In all honesty, though, he really couldn't afford it today. There was just too much waiting to be done and he knew when not to push his luck. But with the move to Central, the loss of his own office was sorely missed at times of being overburdened with files and reports. While he wouldn't _ignore_ the desolate amount awaiting his oh so bided for attention, a break would be much enjoyed. But she'd cut down on his 'break times' considerably since the move and it was made all the more easier with her desk now beside his.

He wasn't sure how long the silent stretch had been before the phone's sudden ring frightened the hell outta him and his lieutenant, he noticed consolingly. He picked it up immediately after the first ring ended, eager for the slight break.

"Mustang."

His voice was neutral and controlled, but a brief glance to Hawkeye revealed a tiny smirk at undoubtedly what _she_ heard in it. He only scrunched his nose a bit and closed his eyes, focusing on the call.

"…what?" came the disbelieving and astonished whisper, Hawkeye's face becoming wary at his straightened posture. He gave a furtive glance around the too small office, conscious of his subordinates' stares, and turned away to face the wall. "Are you _sure_?" the even quieter breath came.

"Alright," he nodded gently. "Yes, fine. Of course I'll meet you for dinner," another useless nod. "Alright, see you then." His words were polite, tone serious and caring, and manner solemn. He hung the phone up, the hand set landing heavily in its cradle.

He stood up woodenly and proceeded to walk around his desk in the same manner. Passing his lieutenant's desk, he offered something along the lines of taking a break before leaving the room, only dully raising a hand at her inquiry of his being alright.

They all shared worried glances before Hawkeye got up and went after him. She'd had to question a few personnel walking the halls to find his whereabouts before she came upon him. He was outside, leaning against the trunk of the oak tree at the courtyard's park, staring off into the distance.

She walked up to him, stopping a few paces behind and watching his back as she spoke. "Sir? Is everything alright?"

He didn't respond right away, but a pathetic sigh was issued when her words did finally reach him. "Do you remember Stacia?" he asked, not quite conversationally. There was a hint of _something_ there… Regret? Acceptance?

"Yes, sir."

Hawkeye remembered the girl, though she hasn't been spoken of for a few weeks. It had been his latest… She hesitated to call it 'conquest', as they'd actually been dating for a respectable amount of time, and steadily. In all the time she's known him, this was by far the longest relationship, and only one actually _worthy_ of that classification, he's had. What had it been, five, almost six weeks? The rumor going around central had been that this Stacia was 'the one' that had managed to keep the Flame's flame lit.

"She's pregnant."

Hawkeye swallowed after the initial sequence of blinking dumbly had passed, suddenly _very_ uncomfortable and averting her eyes in rapid movements.

Roy watched her from the corner of his eyes, aware of a sudden atmosphere between them. Why did he tell her of all people…?

"I…don't know what to do."

"I wouldn't know either, sir."

Ouch. She had slammed that on him pretty quick. Whatever had happened between them, all the time spent together, the experiences, had been nullified, possibly irrevocably.

"Excuse me, sir, but there's work to be done." He watched as she saluted and turned, stiffly walking back into the building.

And standing out there in the beautiful shade of a magnificent tree on a gorgeous day looking at others passing busily by in glorious life, Roy Mustang couldn't remember the last time he had felt so alone.

* * *

OMG! I KILLED the Royai! Kiiiiiiiiiiiilled it! Well, kitttu, looks like you aren't the only one with angsty and 'unromantic' visions of Royai. T.T 


	3. 28 Pain and Wounds

#28: Pain and Wounds

* * *

He hadn't been in any condition to leave the hospital. She'd told him as much, not that she'd expected him to listen, and he'd fulfilled that expectation true to stubborn Mustang manner. She saw him back to his room, following beside him as he barely maintained a walk before heading off to comply with his order. She'd draped the uniform across the end of the bed, watching from the doorway to assure he rose from the bed safely before shutting it and allowing him to change.

It had been very difficult to watch him panting in the hallway, sweat from the exertion in his weakened state beading on his face. But it was even more so when she turned at the door opening behind her. The beads were now a decently sized populace across his features and the pants that had invaded his lungs were still agonizingly obvious, even in his attempts to squander them. Her heart constricted in an already crushing chest at the strained and pained gaze he fixed upon her before it was ripped away. She had done the same when she noticed the imperfections in his uniform, the items left undone signifying the relative unimportance for the amount of effort it would take to fasten them.

The trip to the car had been long and trying but he'd made it on his own, damned if he'd let anyone help him. She had gotten in with her usual silence and worried glances, constantly checking on him. He was in pain, much pain. Every glance to the rearview mirror revealed it in his abandoned crossed-arms for favor of gripping his side, eyes compressed and teeth grit in a wounded grimace. Even the sweat and strain was apparent through the mirror and she paused at the wheel as they stopped in front of Central Headquarters. His eyes were closed now, so great was the pain. She couldn't take this anymore.

Throwing open her door, she got out and went around to his, making sure he wasn't leaning against it before pulling on his. His eyes flickered to hers before fluttering shut, hands digging further into the fabric over that left side. She knelt just inside the door, hands going to his and gently forcing them from the wounds.

"Take me…to my…house," he grunted out in short gasps.

The pain was enough to change his mind and deter him from jumping into work, apparently. She would do what he asked _only_ if they hadn't reopened. And she proceeded to undo the rest of the coat, diving her hands underneath to flip it open and begin on his shirt. The holster had surprised her, she didn't think he'd put it on because it might rub. But she supposed it was included because it was part of the uniform, though she did note its looseness and how it was off to the side.

There was no obvious sign of bleeding through this layer either, and further opening up to where only the bandage lay between her and his panting torso, the torn skin saying as much. The wounds hadn't reopened, at least not yet. A look thrown up to his face halted her thoughts and hands, caught by the intense emotions in the pieces of the irises glimpsed through eyelids blinking in pained flutters as they looked upon her. Taking refuge in her work, she busied her hands with re-buttoning the shirt and pulled away, avoiding the dark orbs that followed her, and shut the door.

She refrained from the rearview mirror the entire way, feeling his gaze on her through it. She didn't want to see, to read what was there and sort it out. She had a duty to see to and right now, her charge dearly needed lots of rest. Perhaps it was better he left the hospital. That place was too busy and he'd be more at ease in familiar surroundings free of tension from roommates…

The pull of the mirror was strong, but she resisted. Her foot pressed against the pedal a little more. She couldn't bear the weight of those eyes and knew she wouldn't be able to pull away from the _need_ they emanated again. And so it was with much care that she helped him from the car and to his house, all the while keeping her senses from being absorbed through those eyes and making her way back to the car. It wasn't until she was almost back to Central that she had the courage to look into the mirror once more, void of the haunting visage that was Roy Mustang. She could still feel them.

…And guilt. He'd been asking in the only way he ever would, not with words that would humiliate, bruise his pride, only body language to convey his thoughts, his desire, and needs. Even now as she buried herself in catching the office forever behind when he _was_ there and farther off when he wasn't up, she could still feel them and her mind flashed, the image of him peering down at her burning her sight. She squeezed her eyes against it and shook her head, standing up as her hands landed loudly onto the desk top.

What was she doing? He'd clearly called out for once and she'd just ignored it, pushed it aside as if it'd never been there. The guilt flared and could no longer be held back, shame flooding through at the realization that she had only deepened the cut. He never asked for _any_thing, but if he was so blatantly turned down the few times he did, it was no wonder he ceased asking all together.

She left her desk, papers flurrying in her hurry. Throwing a pretense of going to change the colonel's dressings at Breda's and Fuery's worried looks and questions, she flew once more to the car, speeding to the side that needed her most.

* * *

I tried to invoke a double meaning to the whole 'pain and wound' theme, but not sure if I was able to convey that. I might have tried to be too _deep_. Tee hee. Manga readers, can you guess which instance this is from? 


	4. 1 Military Personnel

#1: Military Personnel

* * *

Military personnel were designed for one thing and thus, only had one purpose; to be used as pawns on the giant chess board that was Amestris. The romantic side of Roy fancied himself a knight, fighting the good fight to protect those precious to him and, of course, that special lady. He paid no heed to the fact that she wasn't the classical in-distress version, for then she wouldn't be who she was. And there were times where he came to her rescue in ways just as chivalric as the tales. Theirs was a case of the _modern_ fairytale, swords replaced with guns, fire, quick wits, and an occasional appearance by a dog…

But the personnel of the military being pawns per their design, he put them to use, per design, in delivering a message to that lady from her knight. And one very special pawn was summoning his lady to the window for him so that his message _could_ be delivered. Casting a look behind him with a quick command of 'don't move', Roy turned around and smiled with hands on hips at the sight of a blond head in his office window four stories up, waving up as he saw her hands fly to her mouth.

"Well," he shouted up as Breda helped her open the window, "whadda you say?"

He watched, proud smirk still beaming, as she removed her hands to reveal the bright smile that he could see from there and the gasp he swore he'd heard, as well.

"Yes! Yes, of course!" her voice echoed in the courtyard, washing over them in waves of giddy embarrassment, Breda having pulled away at the answer and disappearing.

Roy nodded, and shouted back, throwing a vague hand gesture, "Thank you."

Turning around to face the personnel he'd enlisted in his task, he instructed one last time, "Dismissed." And he couldn't stop the smile from widening as the carefully arranged soldiers broke the 'marry me' formation and into applause, congratulating and embarrassing him all through his retreat into the building and to a newly acquired fiancé.

* * *

This should make up for the angst…yes? 


	5. 2 Gunshot

2. Gunshot

* * *

He had always found them to be comforting. It meant she was alright, alive, still fighting. It was the rhythm at his side, the cadence to which he fired. When it was missing, it felt empty, wrong. He felt alone.

It had always been a bizarre comfort, her presence, her shooting, her true aim. He had never been one to depend on people but when she was gone, he felt vulnerable; vulnerable for the fact that she was gone or that she was harmed, to be used against him. She caused him worry when he couldn't see her and he _should_, his security blanket did.

But there was a time when all he'd heard was her trademark and he'd never been more scared in his life. Fear overtook the worry and no amount of calling would bring back the latter or dispel the former. They were rapid shots, desperate. He hadn't been there. He had raced there. But they _were_ there, those shots. It meant she was alright, alive, and still fighting. He had made it in time. He didn't know what he would have done if they'd never sounded again.

It was the rhythm at his side, the cadence to which he fired. When it was missing, it felt empty, wrong.

He felt alone.

Truly alone.


	6. 3 Battlefield

3. Battlefield

* * *

He was there again, in that distant place where she couldn't help him, not like she wanted to, felt the need to. She could see the smoke, the light of flames in those hooded eyes; could see the gunfire alight in a desert twilight, see their impacts, the buildings crumbling and bursting from rapidly expanded air. She could see the despair, the pain, the burden through his slump, in the limp hand idly twisting a pen on the desk as he looked and not-looked at it, his gaze empty but not. It made little noises, little clicks and thumps and softened thuds when his padded fingertips failed to catch it, lost in distraction.

He was trapped in his mind, still waging that war, lost in a sea of sand and blood and red and fire and death and regret; of perceptions so real and vivid until senses overwhelmed and he broke free. There was an inhaled breath, a tap as the pen was released, a sigh. It was gone and it was forgotten and work was resumed.

But the battle still waged and the time would come again when it sieged him and she would be just as helpless, useless. She couldn't save him from himself, but she tried.


	7. 50 Fingertips

#50: Fingertips

* * *

Every morning it was the same routine, only changing slightly in these last two months as it got harder for her to stand. She would wake up extra early to prepare a small breakfast, at the very least, so he'd have something to eat before facing the hectic office. He'd always come out dressed fresh from his shower or from bed, rubbing last minute sleep from half-lidded eyes with one arm and coat hung over the other just as she finished fluffing up the rice.

He'd deposit his coat over one unoccupied chair and sit, or sink, into his usual, giving a tired smile as she paddled still steaming rice into a little bowl and set it before him, fork alongside it. He begins immediately and she moves away to fetch a slice of toast and his coffee. She'd had to get used to making rice and for breakfast, no less! But he'd been ever patient in helping her learn how. Sometimes he or herself, and even rarer both, would make it the night before if tomorrow's prediction for unusual craziness was high.

He never took long to eat. She'd just be finishing up preparing _her_ breakfast of rice, toast, and eggs. There would be a slight scrapping of legs against the floor and the rustle of fabric as he stood and pulled on his coat. He would walk over to her, buttoning his jacket on the way as she placed the eggs onto her plate, he pushing the last one through its hole. He'd stand behind and place his right hand at the elbow holding the spatula, give a gentle lingering kiss on her left cheek and reach up under her shirt with the newly freed left to give a tender, reverent brush of fingertips against her stomach that always left her with a smile even long after he'd pulled away to work.

There were never any words; neither needed them or used them much. Words were reserved for times of worry and play and were not to be wasted on useless phrases. Speech degraded thoughts and feelings with the inadequateness of words and was unacceptable when the language of touch was so much more convincing and _true_. They'd long since outgrown the stumblings of speech and graduated to caresses and more intimate contacts.

But it was the feel of those tips against her abdomen, giving so lovingly in the morning, that stayed with her throughout the day, even as she snuggled contentedly back into bed when her feet could bear the burden no longer. And it was the feel of those fingertips against that skin that let the smile take root and swell from the nourishment of the heart's flutterings; its residence on her lips as she basked in the morning sun filtering through the light curtains, her own fingers upon the same skin. But it wasn't the same, for she could feel things he couldn't and therefore lacked the reverence reserved for men alone. But he wouldn't have to wait for much longer. Soon he would be able to brush those awed fingers against something more deserving and wondrous than either he or she had known in their lives, and yet something they'd had to come together to see.

Her owns fingers rubbed absently at the spot continually as she was slowly lulled into slumber, a combination of internal forces and warmth from the sun's rays singing to her in the most convincing of ways. And so it was with little resistance that she let them and the remembrance of his fleeting hand against her rock her to sleep, dreaming of mornings where the lingerings from a gentle mouth and beloved fingertips kissed her 'until evening' every day.

* * *

Can anyone guess the _vague_ reference? 


	8. 4 Grave

4. Grave

* * *

It was dark, the thunder loud and the lightning harsh. It was that 'special' time of year again, the third one since. They had gone their separate ways after work and she'd seen him into the house through the rain. And he'd gone, shoulders slumped, head hung, and pace so very slow and she'd paused only a short time after he'd shut the door before going home herself.

It wasn't until later that she'd thought to check up on him, driving by his residence and only nodding at the dark ex- and interiors. Tonight being tonight, she'd been expecting the mourning atmosphere. But still, she'd gone through the rain to knock upon his door; why, she couldn't say. He didn't come to the door and that's when she opened it, not particularly fearing anything but sensing _some_thing. She _knew_ Roy Mustang well enough to tell just from sticking in her head that he was not home; be it from the missing shoes or other miscellaneous items had or had not caught her eye, Riza knew this much. And she knew where he would most likely be found.

She had sped as fast as she dared through the flooded streets, pushing herself to get to his all too vulnerable side. She'd pulled the coat tightly about her and she ran from the car and up the path. The pause at the peak of the walkway only long enough to ascertain his presence and state, she resuming her dash, slowing as she neared and walking what little distance remained. Her cautious steps put her just to his left and she observed him, looking for any signs that would trigger alarms.

Nothing, just a forlorn, deeply depressed Roy Mustang standing in front of a head stone, left hand palm down on its rounded top, white shirt soaked and sticking to skin as closely as his hair to his face. There was a sniffle and Riza jumped at the pistol in the right hand as it came up to rub once at the offender, rain water flying from the movement and replaced just as quickly in the torrent.

"Sir," her expression soft, "you won't be able to help anyone in that state." He only gave a rain-laden blink and continued his vigil of the engraving. She watched him carefully, sympathetically, switching from stone to face to ground. "How much have you had to drink, sir?"

"…a bit." His voice was worn, tired, but not raw.

"Did you walk?" A solemn nod. "In just that?" Another and her sigh. "I'll take you home, sir." A half nod this time, and when he didn't move right away, she reached out, settling a gentle hand on his forearm. His gaze fell from the cruel gray cutout rock and they walked back to the borrowed military vehicle, he looking back for as long as he could.

She watched him from a sideways vantage as they walked, he getting to her. "I'll stay with you. I won't leave you alone tonight," she'd said calmly, relieved when he'd finally turned his sight from the grave at the promise. Looking forward, even if it was to the ground, was better than looking at the past, and Riza gave thanks to that and how she was with him now as they walked through the downpour out of the cemetery.


	9. 5 Heiki & Heiki

#5: Heiki (weapon) & Heiki (fine)

Every since that fateful day, there was always one place she could go; one place that was sure to hold the wayward colonel. And because it was the place it was she never knew whether to be thankful or troubled for it. Sometimes, it was both. She was relieved when she found him there safe and relatively unharmed on those days when he'd been unusually moody, silent. It was only doubly so when Ed got off with little to no teasing. She was always so thankful because he hadn't done what he feared, had failed to do in the past, as he'd once admitted, or had failed to do again, as was sometimes true.

It was _those_ days that caused her the most worry. But she never feared for him, his mental well-being. She had promised herself that she would give in to that fear when he actually got passed the safety. But until he did, she would continue to run to his hiding place when he managed to escape her. And upon arriving, would give him a few minutes more to himself after his glance, step up beside him for a few more, and place a hand gently upon his arm when it was time to go.

He always knew when she was there and she always knew just how long to give him. Sometimes, she wondered, if this was all some sort of test. If she took too long to get there or didn't come at all, for whatever reason, would that be enough to pull? She always dispelled away with such thoughts, never liking them and thinking that he wasn't that kind of person. But there was evidence that said otherwise under the right circumstances, and she promised herself that she would always be there for him. And if she wasn't, she would run there, would be there soon.

But that day hadn't yet come, and until it did, she would continue to pick him up from the spot and drive him home, a stop at the market for fresh fruit the only interruption. And until he expressed desire for otherwise, so it would be.


	10. 6 Death

6. Death

* * *

It had been a constant and something he lived everyday since the donning of the uniform. He had been so proud to have been awarded it, hailed by his parents, town, and the military as a genius and whisked under more than a few wings as names warred over who would get the prodigy. But with these most disturbing and recent events, it was only a suffocating weight and the guillotine of all that he had once held so very dear. He didn't think there was a word in any of the languages he knew to accurately capture what he was feeling.

He was a soldier but an alchr him; one wrong move, one questionable phrase, and a staff member would pay in full for his folly.

* * *

Takes place in/after chapter 52. The Ishbal comment is in reference to Blue Side 2. 


	11. 8 Store Lined Streets

8. Store-lined streets

* * *

There was something so enjoyable about being able to just take a stroll through the town. He much preferred it when he wasn't in uniform as he felt that much more at ease for the movement it afforded and the attention not drawn by the blue threads and shining bars. Whether walking alone or with Havoc, teasing the gullible Fuery, or a joke meeting its death at Falman provided the much needed distraction and relief as the dividing line between the real world and Roy Mustang. The shops were usually passed with little interest and comments traded between friends, or himself when alone, and more often than not of an innuendo-like nature. They rarely entered any of them, although there was the not too rare occasion where a journey inside for the sole purpose of embarrassing naïve little Fuery.

The walks were more for the novelty of peace they afforded and the almost anonymity for being out of uniform. But he would admit to himself that when a little something that reminded him of her caught his eye he would stop and venture in for a close look when window staring failed to satiate. Sometimes he would leave with the item and sometimes more would tag along. He found it happening more often, as of late, and that he really didn't mind.


	12. 9 Unknown Past

9. Unknown past/Before we know each other

* * *

She knew him well where Ishbal was concerned, even better afterwards. She had the quirks, the irks, and the sarcasms mentally mapped out, clear as any transmutation array. But she often wondered about his family, his childhood. What were they like? What were his parents' names? Did he even know his mother? Or his father? She thought she remembered mention of a sibling or more, but she wasn't sure if it was that they were or weren't. Where had he lived aside from the general 'east'? Did he have a happy childhood?

Occasionally, a slight of comment sounded like a reference to that childhood, to some random memory running through that head and out in a murmur. There were times when she could see the child he might have been - the little dark-haired mischievous boy running down a dusty dirt road from his own self-induced trouble - in the smirk across from her. And there were times when that image was so clear in those slanted lips that she could easily see that same trouble in his children.

But these were just thoughts, her projections onto that which she didn't know. She resolved someday, she would know for sure.


	13. 10 Promise

10. Promise

* * *

She had been drawn to him out of respect during the war; she had stuck with him out of its evolvement of loyalty. Through these many years, now, a great number of exchanges had taken place; teasing, jokes, stories, sad and joyful times. Many ideas had been birthed, many more died, more pondered and developed, and a decent amount living a full life. In the darker times, when emotions ran high and logic submitted to instinct and polite words failed him, he would reveal thoughts in private exchanges with his lieutenant. They were always read indirectly through his tone and manner of speech, through weary posture and expecting eyes, through the dropping of all pretenses of barriers between them.

He always warned her of the danger. He believed in letting those know about what they're getting into. He had a heavy conscience. He never assured her safety or attempted to delude with guaranteed survival. He never said such things to her and yet she could pull it from his voice; he wouldn't let anything happen to her.


	14. 32 Shirt

#32: Shirt

* * *

It was another anniversary and she'd gone on her usual check up of him. The lights in his private office were off and she opened his door cautiously, mindful of intruding. The lights weren't the only thing off, she noticed, finding his coat on the floor in front of his desk. Her eyes followed the path of light let in by the doorway she was leaning through, traveling over the lump of his coat and to the glass reflecting it back at her from his desk. Her eyes narrowed in anguish. He'd been into the scotch again.

She wasn't surprised. She'd just been hoping that this year would be different. So not fearing any sort of retribution or interruption, she fully entered the room, finding him in the expected location and condition. There he lay on his couch, head facing outward with parted lips, one arm across his abdomen and the other over the edge, fingers curled into the rug. His hair was mussed much more than usual from the many passes of hands through it during the night, the shirt's customary top four buttons open, partly untucked, sleeves rolled halfway, the white fabric crinkled in more than a few places and gripped tightly by the hand atop it.

She knelt beside him, careful of the arm cast off in sleep and first placed a compassionate hand over his, watching as the slight contact led to the clenched fabric's slow release, the hand imprisoning it easing. Her other came to his face, brushing hair away from his eyes and passing the backs of her fingers lightly across his cheek in a soothing run.

Her head fell softly against his chest, hand holding his recently freed one and exhaled. She simply held that position, listening to and riding the breaths that caused his chest to raise so. She turned her face into his warmth, burying it and nudging against him, her nose nuzzling its way between two buttons to find the skin underneath and sighing. How she loved this smell, unfiltered by the fabric of his shirt and not smothered by the uniform coat. She couldn't smell the scotch, the alcohol, from here and that particular aspect always made this so bittersweet.

She hated how he did this, drunk himself to sleep to escape despair for one more night, but she coveted the results of it too much to ever try and stop him. He never slept so well than on nights like this and she wouldn't have been able to get so close to him, to see his utterly naked emotions and discarded self-restraint. On nights like these, she can finally indulge in assigning senses of touch alongside the visuals of the muscles in his arms or update areas that have fallen into the grey, instead.

On nights like this, she can finally wrap her fingers in the shirt that defines the man as much as he defines the shirt; can run her hands over his arm to feel the muscles the shirt hides from her, watching how its fabric pulls across her fingers and his flesh. Or on nights where she feels particularly daring, she'll permit her hand to venture beneath its hindrance, closing her eyes and allowing the sensations of her fingertips against his skin to record the images for her; until he stirs, where she retracts her hand and quietly stands, going to retrieve his coat and draping it over him, a last brush against his forehead in goodnight.

She hates it when he drinks like this, but she can't deny that he needs it, that sometimes he needs to just lose himself. Peering at him from behind the door, she lets the warm smile grow before closing it and terminating the light, settling at her own desk for another night at the office.

* * *


	15. 34 Telephone

#34: Telephone

* * *

All they could do was stare at each other, standing in his office before his desk, neither remembering how they'd gotten so close or what they'd even been talking about. He was aware of the stack of papers now clutched to her stabbing into his chest, of his half-lidded eyes and of her parted lips, panting breaths escaping through them, her cheeks flushed and knuckles white around the stack.

His focus was on her lips, so close…just _begging_. His fell open, preparing to match hers, a sharp ring causing an equally sharp breath to be taken in through both sets. But neither moved, the moment halted but not interrupted. The first ring ended, the second washing throughout the room, and still they stood before each other.

Peripherally, he was aware of the door opening, knew it was Havoc by the complete silence offered and the feel of his eyes on him as he shifted between the two figures.

"Uh, you gonna answer that?" the uncertain voice came, and again he was aware of the phone, so quiet in the background yet its unanswered rings loud enough to draw Havoc in to check.

"Jean," he addressed normally, eyes still locked onto the lips now in a straight line, his tone loud between them.

"Yeah?"

"Close the door."

"Aa."

* * *

Did they or didn't they, hmm, I wonder. 


	16. 61 Journal

And to kick of my first hour of freedom from the dreaded summer class: an addition!

* * *

#61: Journal

He carried it with him at all times. Its pages useful, often times critical, in working out the musings, fears, speculations, considerations, and…dreams forever floating in his head. Every little bit he came across that grabbed his attention, quickly jotted down. It could be from a passing thoughtless remark of Full Metal to detailed surveillances from Havoc and Hawkeye or the exact recounts of Breda. There were even several pages of technicalities worked out with Fuery, necessary specifications plotted out before execution. And, almost sadly, the cuts of butcher scraps Black Hayate liked the most which were right alongside plots of revenge for a certain photographer. Synonymous?

There were seemingly trivial observances that might, in the future, prove vital. There were restaurants that he'd like to dine in, operas in consideration for 'romances', colognes that interested him, suits and jackets with the dates of their last cleanings, the absolute last day he ran out of easy to make foods, and equations of his many expenses. Arrays were probably the most common and randomly placed elements on the off-white pages, alchemic theories and re-visitations scribbled during the many and long train rides. And, lest it be found out, little drawings of eye glasses, varying designs and shapes and patterns sprinkled just as haphazardly throughout the book, pondering which he'd like better on the face that sat across from him and how he preferred her hair down.

Recently, one design was emerging more and more, and lately it was the only one that seemed to come to him. He had decided on this latest ride, and after subsequently finishing another identical sketch, that this was 'the look' for her glasses. In contrast, there were only three musings throughout the entire three-quarters-length filled black-bounded pages of a ring. Why they were there at all, he couldn't say. One would not find, however, thousands of miniskirt patterns, addresses, contact information, birthdates, or confessions. Those were things kept in his head, things unwritten so as not to exist, to not be later used against him. He was always careful, even more so about what he recorded than whom or what he recorded on. Paranoia was healthy if one was in _this_ military.

But there existed a special section, a page really, in his journal, placed just to the right of the middle where no one would think to look. It was of simple construction; two columns, one on either side of the cream-colored leaf of paper. They were characters underlined by what must have been a sharp crisp stroke, a small collection of words underneath each line; lists, short lists, in his mother's language. It was no secret, nothing in code to be hidden from prying eyes. Anyone who could read the tongue would know what it said. The left side boys, the right girls. Yes, that's right. Names. Only those he liked, that especially stood out, made it to this page, and reviewing them again was tempting forth a smile.

"Planning for the future again, sir?"

He suppressed the quivering of his lips, keeping the smile from becoming. Her face and tone were serious, but he knew her and easily detected the subtle tease and surprise at his response. There must have been something in his own tone. Meeting her eyes, he snapped the book shut, standing ahead of her and before the train had come to a complete stop

"Always."


	17. 36 Dog

36. Dog

* * *

He wouldn't even begin to deny that he hated the dog, any dog. In fact, he made it a point to devote as much time as possible to skipping out on work _just_ to see the mutt. Not only was it a convenient excuse to get out of the office, but it was actually fun! Of course he was well aware of the looks, the glares she sent him out of the corner of her eyes. But what did he care? It was a _dog_! _A dog!_ At the office! And dogs were always fun to play with and treat.

And, boy, did he spoil that pup. He wasn't one for the winter months, but he couldn't deny that he liked them for the heavy coats that allowed him to smuggle in more treats than he could the canine thing. In the winter, he would put off removing his heavy overcoat and instead sit with exaggerated gloom and irritation in his chair, feigning chills. Then he would wait. He would wait until Hawkeye would slide him a knowing look and ever so graciously slip from the room to fetch coffee.

He would wait for Fury's safety wave before eagerly breaking out the stash of goodies and luring Black Hayate over to him. He would run through the tricks the pup knew, rewarding him each time. But his favorite was to tear pieces of the treat up into little bite sizes. There would be a firm finger on the bridge of the dog's nose, steadying the head and putting him into position. A morsel was placed at the tip and he always held the dog's eyes with his own just to tease, finger once again in control at the nose's bridge. But when he lifted the finger was when the quick snap did away with the bit and all evidence of his spoiling him.

Hawkeye would return and he would fix a reproving stare at Hayate, issuing a firm 'lay' command alongside a scowl. He would then slip out of his coat and flip it backwards over the chair and out of his way, swiveling around to the desk proper and picking up the pen and topmost document. There would always be a sly 'I know what you did' look from Hawkeye as she scrutinized him sideways, sitting at her own desk. The rejoinder was always 'can I help it your dog likes me better than you?'

He didn't mind winter so much when the dog was around.


	18. 11 Liar

11. Liar

* * *

There was never any false anger in his reactions to Hughes's teasing. Years and times of being beside him had long since shattered the façade of the immovable perfect soldier, and the lines around his eyes as he glared at the phone – or even more vaguely at the air or Hughes's back after such photo- and praise-laden instances - belied his true thoughts. Their tightness lasted only ever-so-briefly before easing, the wrinkles smoothing into the intimate counterparts of regret and jealousy. The latter was even more fleeting; he could not covet his friend's happiness, not when he'd been conscious of what he was most likely sacrificing at the instigation of his 'goal'.

She would watch as he stood angrily above the phone resting upon his desk, his hands loosening from tightly clenched fists as eyes drooped and lips firmed. He needed the gloating to goad him forward. She knew Hughes did it more than for pride, but she was not privy to his exact motivation. She knew it to be there, this ulterior motive, by the parting look in Hughes's eyes and tone to his words. Together they seemed to chant 'don't forget, don't give up'. Roy was reminded of this every time the play was enacted and she could see the result was always the same; he continued on, forward.

She would always ask him if anything was wrong, in her own way, after half-seriously reprimanding him for overreacting.

He would always say 'no'.


	19. 23 Someone I Want to Protect

23. Someone I want to protect

* * *

She had questioned him one night after a particularly brutal onslaught of fatherly gushing as they sat at the bar's tables. The alcohol and atmosphere stewing in their bellies made for a somber-lit Flame. He always took solace and comfort in the form of promised escape through drinks as he ran from Hughes's assaults, able only to take so much from it. But he wouldn't trade the behavior, didn't want it to change. It had its purposes and it was so _Maes_. They were seated just outside the drunken game table the others were circled around, watching idly and mutually enjoying the quiet the other was bestowing. He was weary tonight, she could see, and there was a certain ache and longing in those features that were not their first appearances.

_It's not that I don't want a family. I just don't have the time for one._

The smoke was finally clearing as the situation duplicated itself, minus one very central figure. It was an anniversary of Roy's loss and now he sat in remembrance with that same expression upon his face, military issue coat off and strewn across the next stool as he leaned backwards against the bar. The melancholy sag to his baby-round face was colored with more than regret these days as things had turned against them. Even though it was approaching closing time and the establishment still boasted a number of patrons, it was all much too empty and quiet without the others. At her we should go, sir, he only numbly nodded and gathered his things with modest difficulty in grasping the coat and leaving money with fumbling fingers.

_Not right now._

She had driven him per the norm and parked a ways down from his house. He made a face at the distance he would be forced to walk and irritably questioned why she hadn't dropped him off closer. She would walk him up, she'd said, to which he protested – quite strongly – that he was more than capable to continue on his own. She had refused, saying he'd been much too solemn without explanation and that she was afraid to leave him alone. She would watch over him. She would stay the night.

He had come to a firm, complete, and very lucid stop. "No."

"But, sir-"

"Go home, Hawkeye."

_And I couldn't justify putting them in that kind of danger._

Her features became unmistakably upset and she drew breath in preparation to hand it to him. He interrupted before she even began. "You cannot come in, Hawkeye."

He thought he heard her voice on the edge of breaking. He was sure she heard it, too, in her anguished whispery cry. "Why do you keep pushing me away? Why won't you let me stay with you with everyone gone?"

He met her eyes before he left here there on the sidewalk in the misting air, eyes fathomless in the dark emotions she couldn't read. "Because you're all I have left."

He turned and forced the image of his back to her from his mind's eye as he waded through the cloud of miniscule droplets to unlock his door. He ignored the vision of her still in shock out in the cold on the sidewalk as he locked it behind him and hung his coat. He didn't turn the lights on as he walked down the streetlamp, mist-reflected hallway to sink onto his bed.

His sleep was devoid of dreams and rest.


	20. 12 Proof

12. Proof

* * *

One of those every once-in-awhiles when he managed to completely escape all eyes and there didn't seem to be any indication or suspicion of where he was likely to be, he would be buried away from the world about six blocks from the office. And every time it ended up being that place, she would suppress the urge to kick herself for not realizing it from the start.

The walk was never long or far and yet she would take the few minutes required to cover the distance to remind herself of the nature of the beast. The large deeply stained wooden doors were pulled open and she slipped inside. She looked to the receptionist. Their eyes met and the slightly elderly woman behind the grand desk only gave that knowing smile, pointing with gentle amusement at her mild ire; 'that way'. She returned a half one of her own and lightly rolled her eyes, heading to the stair case that would take her to the balcony.

She let her fingers glide lightly over the banister as she climbed, long since palm-worn smoothness. The thick luxurious carpeting on the curved staircase still sunk after all these years under her light steps. She gave brief cursory glances in her ascension, leisurely looking below her, unconcerned as she knew he was not to be found there. Cresting the stairs she paused, looking first to her left and then her right, debating which half to search first. She went right. She walked, not briskly but not unhurried, and glanced between each of the rows, peering between the numerous shelves and their ridiculous amounts of tomes in the hopes that the next would reveal that telltale blue.

The latest glance to the left as she moved along brought the flash and she stopped at the row's end. She'd almost missed it. There he stood, light winter coat open and hanging loosely about him, almost completely concealing the military blues and him from her search. A book lay open before him, cradled in the palm of his left; a pensive look was upon his brows and features, forefinger and thumb at his chin. She fought the amused smile and debated. He seemed to have sensed someone there, maybe he sensed her, and glanced up, chin pulling away from his hand. There was no reaction before the chin was replaced and he returned to that before him.

She decided.

Walking calmly to him she put out her left hand, tip of the index finger resting in the opened spine, thumb and remaining fingers at each side of the cover to gently snap it shut. His lips and brows pursed briefly in the barest of pouts before he dispelled the behavior; he finally looked at her.

"You should be working, sir." Her voice was light, amused, and exasperated all in one breath.

He sighed quietly and put the book back upon the shelf. She turned to lead him out, half facing him as she paused to watch his hesitance. His eyes were still fixed upon it. His fingers lingered, the tips sliding along the dark spine. His lips firmed and his eyes tightened in remorse and longing.

Another time, then.

Hands were shoved into his pockets and he hunched to draw the coat closer about his neck before straightening and walking past her. She fell in.

A mental shake of her head.

The scientist couldn't be taken out of the soldier.


	21. 14 Covered Eyes

Based on early 50s' manga chapter and a certain possession of Bradley's.

* * *

14. Covered eyes

Things had gone to hell. What little security he'd had in the way of triply layered coded talk between his cultivated and closely guarded crop of subordinates and doubly acting friends had been decimated into a single diseased and crippled stalk, its survival threatened through its tie-in with the farmer. A weed now held it in its strangling grip, poised to suffocate the budding sapling, death resultant from any failed move on his part.

…Unless it could be timely snipped.

As it stood now, he was powerless to stop it. Some tilling was called for, some combing through the fields was necessary, some research desperately in need if his harvest was still to yield.

He was aware _he_ was the weed in the _weed's_ garden, aware that the nurturing fertilizer had turned out to be a slow herbicide when they had sprouted too far.

One cultivator had been better prepared.

The other had not seen far enough in advance.

Now the land would suffer.

* * *


	22. 77 Implicit Rules

77. Implicit Rules

* * *

He'd always thought he'd known all the rules - the twists, turns and quirks - to the game, but he'd been wrong. Even now, twirling the last knife he'd ever thrown in his palm, Roy could taste the edges of change as sharp as the instrument that would cut if mishandled. And yet it had failed to save his friend. The knife was turned on another rotation, its glint ever failing to right his newly sundered world, to stitch it back up with its needle-point tip.

Looking past the signature weapon was somehow even more surreal; the cement still held onto his stains, somehow even more reluctant than himself in letting go. The phone booth… The booth had him asking, 'Did that really happen here?' There was no sign of struggle, no blood smeared on glass or cord or hook from fumbling hands. No messy boot prints of feet shuffling to escape. Of course not. Hughes never ran.

"Maes, you idiot," he whispered, knife once again filling his vision.

A soft scuffling of boots on the sidewalk. "Are you about done, sir?"

He sighed. She kept him from drowning. Time to go. He pushed off against the booth's door, not bothering to close it, and paused next to her.

"Something wrong, sir?" Her eyes were large as she tried to gauge him. No doubt it was just a courtesy, asking him that. She knew otherwise. But protocol, protocol.

"He's really dead." He looked down and willed the misplaced emotion from his person. He pocketed the blade and brought his hand up to rest on her shoulder as he paused in passing. "Don't follow him." He just barely registered the movement of her nod.

"I understand, sir," her voice crisp and firm as always. "But I make no promises."

His hand slipped from the stiffly uniformed shoulder, a weary sigh issuing forth. "I know."

The rules had always been there and he'd almost always been under tight watch. He and the Fuhrer had hit it off _brilliantly_ ever since the beginning. He'd spent years circumventing it all and knew the paths well. They hadn't changed; he just wished that had been the case. Maes had gotten too close, too close to _something_, and the ceiling had come crashing down. Same system, shifting game.

Enforcement had been enacted.

Maes had been in the way.

His staff was next.


End file.
